Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction (65 page)

In the night, I rummaged through clothes and pockets looking for money or another set of keys, anything to give me hope, only to discover Thomas’s sweet musky scent stirred and rising, blurring my vision with more tears. Any money Thomas had carried on his person, must have been handed over to Joe at the hospital.

On the eighth night, my ideas for escape became more desperate. I’d telephone the police. But then what would I tell them - who would believe that I was trapped here? This town was politically incestuous and Joe one of their good ol’ boys. He’d likely explain in that tired I’m-just-doing-my-best-by-Tom tone that I was bereaved beyond the ability to look after myself and he was just doing his duty, or I’d hurt myself. He’d already found me outside in the middle of the night in my night clothes “pining for her husband”, I heard him say on the telephone. Harriet had previously made it clear to the policemen that I was not well. So whether I called them, or just took off running down the lane one night, I’d eventually be brought back to “where I belonged” to face judgment alone with Joe and Harriet as the ungrateful wench in a shaky mental state.

I pounded my fist into the mattress with frustration. I threw off my sheet and pulled my gown up to my knees, wishing there was more of a breeze coming through the window. The heat and humidity of the southern summer had become merciless just as Thomas had warned me. I flipped my pillow over to its cool side and then stilled. Wood floorboards were creaking out in the hall.
Someone stood at my door wiggling the door knob. There was a skeleton key inside the lock but I’d never had cause to use it. The door opened on a squeaky hinge and Joe’s bulk emerged into the shadowy room.

“Where are you, lonely girl?” he said in a low sing-song voice. His body wavered as he stepped forward, like someone on a wind-tossed ship. He stumbled over my shoes and fell across my bed. He grabbed my legs. “There you are!” My struggle tightened his grip. “You’ll not get away,” he mumbled, slurred and slow. “You’re mine now. Tom gave you to me. Just dropped you off and went on, like he’s always done. Left me holding the bag, but this is one bag I’ll get something out of.” His hand slid up my leg like lightening and took hold of my panties and pulled. I clutched his wrist with both hands.

“Joe, I’ll scream. Do you want Harriet to see you like this?” I hissed, not yet wanting to wake her, not yet wanting to believe why he was here.

“Scream, darlin’. She won’t hear you. I gave her a night toddy that knocked her flat out. Then I stuffed cotton balls in her ears. If I can’t sell the cotton, I’ll stuff ‘em.” He chuckled at himself, letting out a burst of sour smelling liquor vapors. He suddenly jerked hard with both hands and I heard my panties rip. “Damn you woman!” he gasped. “Lay down!” He pushed me hard with his shoulder, pinning me to the bed, while he laid on top of me, partially on his side, trying to work his pants.

“Joe, no! No!” I continued to say, first in a whisper, then in a cry. His forearm came across my neck and pressed down hard, while his hand came over my mouth. With each struggle he pressed harder, until suffocation dulled my senses. Something inside said,
if you don’t lie still, you will surely die
. With every bit of strength in me, I tried to calm myself, only my gasps of air and cries deep within my throat giving movement.

I vaguely heard his pants unzip and a cry bawled in my ears like a cow going into slaughter.

Something soft fell onto my leg and his hand moved against it over and over. “Come on, baby, come on, baby,” he whispered down
to it. Lying fully on top of me, he rubbed against my pelvis, hoping for a response from his lower member, but my breathing began to calm as I realized he could not conclude his violent act.

“Bitch!” he cried. He rolled over to the edge of the bed and sat up, his feet on the floor. He began crying, the silhouette of his shoulders moving up and down spastically.

“I thought it was Harriet’s fault with that scrawny body of hers, not me,” he said, his voice quivering child-like.

I watched without moving, fearing to draw his attention back to me. Finally his forearms came up to his face, wiping away the tears. Sniffing loudly, he arose and shuffled toward the door, pulling together his trousers and suspenders. The door closed softly behind him. I leaped from the bed and turned the key in the lock, my gown scurrying back down to my ankles.

If Thomas had come back, I would have thrown a bomb through his question of why his brother never had any children.

I walked into an unusually quiet kitchen the next morning. As I sliced a piece of bread, Harriet hobbled in, poured a glass of water and announced that a pounding headache would keep her in bed for the day. Joe had gone into town, she said, to deliver pillows to a customer. I could read in my room if I wanted, she added as she scuffled back out. I wondered why she never went with him, why she never left the plantation, and if she realized she still had the cotton balls in her ears. I sipped my cup of tea, my mind in a haze, many nights without sleep taking its toll. The telephone ringing startled me out of my bewilderment. The telephone box was on the wall by the kitchen door, across from the keys.

An angel spoke, “Bess, is that you?” Pearl’s timing was beautiful and so was she, in spite of her dress code.

“Yes Pearl, it’s me!” I forced myself to lower my declaration. “Pearl, it’s so good to hear your voice.” I breathed in deeply to control the tears, but she heard the quavering nonetheless. “I’m so glad
you called. I … need … help!” This was easier to say than I thought it would be.

“Oh, Bess, I know. I’m so sorry about Thomas. He was a great guy. This might not have happened if he’d been elected mayor. This town—”

“Pearl, listen to me, it’s more than that. Oh, so much more!” I paused, my mind racing, my eyes set on the board of keys. I began to focus on them as an idea came to mind. I wouldn’t have much time before one of the two came back. The telephone box had been hung high, suitable for Joe, but not for Harriet. I tiptoed up to speak closely into its mouthpiece, cupping my hand over my mouth “Pearl, listen to me carefully. You’re my only hope in getting out of here. You must come down by train to the town of Pickerville, Georgia. It’s a small town about seven miles west of Savannah. Borrow money from Victor for train tickets and a hotel room for both of us.”

“I’ve got my own money. Bess, what’s wrong? What’s going on?”

“They won’t let me go home, Pearl! I’m trapped here, please, please help me.” My whole body trembled so that I could barely breathe. I had allowed my fear to surface and it was all I could do not to throw the receiver down and start running. The panic in my voice relayed across the hundreds of miles.

“Oh my God … Bess … I’ve never heard you like this. I’ve never been on a train – but I can do it, I’m sure of it! I’ll be on the next train down there, where did you say, Pickerville Georgia? Okay, don’t you worry.”

“I’ll leave now, Pearl, and motor to the hotel. I’ll meet you there. You can’t miss it; it’s right next to the train station.” I silently thanked Thomas for pointing that out during our drive through the town. “Ask for … Lizzie Washington. Got that?” Using Lizzie’s name was not in vain. I understood her more than ever.

I heard static, clicking, more than one breathing – damn it, this was a party-line!

“Got it,” Pearl said. “But I might not get there until tomorrow or the next day. It must take a train a long time to go all the way down to Georgia.”

“Whatever it takes, I’ll be waiting. Pearl, thank you and I can’t wait to see you.”

I heard a noise and jolted around to face Kipper, stretching in the doorway. Joe obviously had her well trained to sense escape. I didn’t pat her head this time. Not that I was superstitious but the last time I did that, I got caught in the act.

I returned to the board of keys, turning keys to look for any identification. Most were not marked from the motor car manufacturer, bringing to mind the question of stolen vehicles. I suspected the worst in Joe by this time. With trembling fingers, I reluctantly brought several down with no choice but to try them out on the twenty-five or so parked in the field.

Clutching these in my sweaty palms, I closed the screen door behind me quietly and entered the yard, scattering chickens and geese. They hadn’t been fed yet and clustered around, pecking at my feet. This reminded me that I too would require food. With no money and a possible two-day wait, I would need to pack a picnic. Hardly the appropriate word for this state of affairs but I focused on it as such to search for the appropriate foods for my journey. With rising panic in getting out, I went back in and returned to the bread loaf, wrapping a tea towel around this. The covered butter dish was there along with a jar of apple butter. The icebox held only buttermilk and raw eggs.

I needed something to carry my “picnic” in. I glanced into the dining room and there across the back of a chair was a blue-striped ticking cover for a pillow. One end of the rectangle had been left unstitched for stuffing feathers. Silently thanking Harriet, I gratefully stuffed it instead with bread, apple butter, and peaches. Keys went in on top. I was ready to go.

Hustling past the fowl, my heart raced faster as I passed the barn. Joe had hired colored help but I saw no one. Perhaps the day was too hot for their kind. The sun blazed and I had no hat or gloves with me. Of course this was the least of my worries, but vanity does speak at the oddest times.

With trembling fingers I at last stopped in front of the first motor car, without care for its condition and brought out a key from my
sack. It didn’t fit the ignition, nor did any of the other keys I brought along. Just as I feared. I ran to the next one. In the bright sunlight I then noticed the name
Buick
etched into the key I grasped. It was God I thanked this time in enabling me to recollect Joe’s comments on an old Buick where the driver’s seat was on the right side. It was easy to spot. The leather top was down and badly worn and torn. I would consequently be easy to spot. But I had no time to pick and choose and no time to lose. The sputtering of her engine and its eventual grasp of gas-and-go was a blessed sound and we pulled away from its companions and out into the barn yard, chickens squawking our break out.

Somehow sensing that this was my last time going down the plantation’s lane, I could almost visualize our Duesenberg heading in on our first day’s arrival, dust billowing behind us as we neared Thomas’s childhood home. How were we to know we were going the wrong way?

It seemed years ago. In a million years I would not have imagined this as my way of departure, but this old stutter had become my companion now and would take me away from here. The breeze cooled as we turned onto the road blowing a sense of freedom through my careless hair. Not since our arrival here had I felt this elation, as my blouse and skirt stirred and vibrated about, tingling my flesh alive. I pushed to the back of my mind who I was leaving behind. The good buried with the bad. I would have to concentrate on what lies ahead. I patted her large steering wheel, standing tall it was, on an exposed pole from the floor. “Let’s just move on with it then!” I shouted above the sputter and stutter.

In due course, I could see Ethel Warner peering into her mailbox by the road. As I slowly puttered by, I could only smile and wave to her gaping mouth. I would be her next topic of gossip, of a woman motoring alone in the heat of day with a naked head and bare hands to bake in the sun. She could almost run beside me at the speed I traveled, or worse yet, jump inside, and this brought to mind Joe’s eventual discovery. I could only pray that her tattle-tale was later rather than sooner.

Just outside of town the Buick exhausted, regardless of my increased pressure on her gas pedal. Steam puffed out from the cap on top of the hood. I could find no gasoline or water container inside. Just as well. I would not have been able to park this in front of the hotel and give away my hideout, so I patted her bench, as crusty and split as brown bread, and stepped down with my sack. She and I had gone as far as we could go.

The railroad tracks were off on the right and these I walked parallel to, guiding me to the hotel. Along the boardwalk, women discreetly eyed my disheveled appearance from under large floppy hats and umbrellas. My blouse was now blemished with perspiration, my breasts sagging shamelessly behind a loose-fitting camisole. I was thinking how easy I would be to identify - just when I almost ran into the back of Joe who was coming out of the general store carrying a sack of feed. His attention more on avoiding a passing motor car than of passing pedestrians, gave me time to step inside the dimness of the next door business. I watched him from the large front window, my eyes darting between bold white backwards lettering across the plate-glass reading,
Soda Fountain
. He walked across the street to his waiting truck, dumped his load and came back. I stepped back into the shadows while he returned next door and brought out another sack of feed. This he did repeatedly while I watched and waited, the room’s interior giving me refuge and a place to cool down.

Or so I thought.